About Hannah Helms

Hannah grew up in the rural mountain town of Mt. Shasta, California. After she left home to pursue her education at the University of Portland, she spent several years enjoying the rain and microbreweries of the Pacific Northwest. She is now a hospice social worker in her hometown, where she lives with her husband and their growing family. In her free time she can be found gardening or painting color swatches on random walls throughout her home. She occasionally blogs at hannahjanehelms.wordpress.com.

On the third Wednesday of each month I set up camp in a conference room at the hospital where I work. I set out water bottles, a tray of cookies, and boxes of tissue. I post signs throughout the hallway, and then sit down and wait. As the clock nears 6:00 pm they start to arrive – the surviving spouses of the hospice patients I have served. Sometimes they smile when they see me, other times they make it through the door just barely, a bewildered and tired look in their eyes.

It seems odd that I, a 29 year old with less than 5 years of marriage under my belt, would be tasked with running a support group for bereaved spouses. In reality I do very little to ease the burden of grief. I give group members permission to talk about their loved ones and their loss. I sit and bear witness; sometimes I have to tell myself to stay and be present, and other times I am captivated and drink in their stories.

The latter was the case with a man who attended my group in March. He was old enough to be my parent and then some, but by far the youngest person in the group. He was also the most reserved.

In this personal and moving post, guest author Hannah Helms makes the case that the Church needs a better theology to address the grief and pain of unrealized motherhood…

My husband, Ben, and I were living in my parents’ guest bedroom at the time, in the middle of our first year of marriage. We were both in-between jobs and graduate school and not having any idea what we were doing. However, the prospect of a baby-to-be was so grounding – in the midst of our uncertainty was the promise of new life and a goal for us to focus on. We waited until I was all of eight weeks along before we made the announcement to my entire extended family on the first day of our annual camp out-reunion at the Jedidiah Smith State Redwood Park.

The day after the announcement I woke up with a tiny spot of blood in my underwear. I ignored it, refused to give in to the worry that sat at the edges of my mind. I mentally reviewed all the normal pregnancy symptoms that I could think of. Spotting is normal. Nothing to worry about here.

I have a confession to make. I don’t have a problem with the Proverbs 31 Woman.

One of the upsides to growing up Catholic is that I lack much of the scriptural baggage that my evangelical friends cart around, particularly in regards to Proverbs 31. I was exposed to the text through the rhythm of the liturgy, but it was never emphasized during the early years of my religious education.

So when I stumbled across this proverb I was impressed. Here was a woman in scripture who embodied the virtues described throughout the Book of Proverbs, who seemed to know herself and what she was about, and was praised for this.